‘Damien—’ Arthur rose ‘—I have to say I can’t guarantee the girl.’
‘You mean everything you told me about her provenance et cetera—’ Damien raised his eyebrows sardonically ‘—was a lot of bull dust?’
‘No,’ Arthur denied. ‘I followed up every reference she gave me and they all checked out, I’ve talked to her and sounded her out on a range of art work, as I mentioned, but—’
‘Just bring her, Arthur,’ Damien interrupted wearily. ‘Just bring her.’
* * *
Despite this repeated command, Damien Wyatt stayed where he was for a few minutes after Arthur had gone, as he asked himself why he’d done what he’d just done.
No sensible answer presented itself other than that he had somehow felt goaded into it, although not because of anything Arthur had said.
So—curiosity, perhaps? Why would Harriet Livingstone want to have anything to do with him after, he had to admit, he’d been pretty unpleasant to her? Some quirky form of revenge?
More likely a quirky form of attaching herself to him, he thought cynically. All the more reason to have stuck to his guns and refused to see the girl.
What else could have been at work behind the scenes of his mental processes then? he asked himself rather dryly. Boredom?
Surely not. He had enough on his plate at the moment to keep six men busy. He had an overseas trip coming up in a couple of days, and yet...
He stared into the distance with a frown. Of course the possibility remained that it wasn’t the same girl...
* * *
At three o’clock the next afternoon, Harriet Livingstone and Arthur Tindall were shown into the lounge at Heathcote by a tall angular woman with iron-grey hair cut in a short cap. Arthur addressed the woman as Isabel and kissed her on the cheek but didn’t introduce her. Arthur was looking worried and distracted.
Damien Wyatt came in from outside through another door, accompanied by a large dog.
He threw his sunglasses onto a side table and said something to the dog, a young, highly bred and powerful Scottish wolfhound, that sat down obligingly although looking keenly alert.
‘Ah,’ Damien Wyatt said to Arthur after a brief but comprehensive study of Harriet, ‘same girl.’ He turned back to Harriet. ‘We meet again, Miss Livingstone. I’d almost convinced myself you wouldn’t be the same person or, if you were, that you wouldn’t come.’
Harriet cleared her throat. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wyatt,’ she said almost inaudibly.
Damien narrowed his eyes and cast Arthur an interrogative glance but Arthur only looked blank.
Damien returned his attention to Harriet Livingstone.
No batik wraparound skirt today, he noted: an unexceptional navy linen dress instead. Not too long, not too short, not too tight, although it did make her blue eyes even bluer. In fact her outfit was very discreetly elegant and so were her shoes, polished navy leather with little heels. This caused a faint fleeting smile to twist his lips as it crossed his mind that this girl probably rarely, if ever, wore higher heels. And he wondered what it must be like for a girl to be as tall, if not taller, than many of the men she met. Not that she was taller than he was...